


Songs of Innocence and Experience

by Burnadette_dpdl, Rebness



Category: Interview With the Vampire (1994), Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Angst, Cats, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fantasizing, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mention of Animal Death, Murder, but they're vampires so like you know what you're in for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burnadette_dpdl/pseuds/Burnadette_dpdl, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebness/pseuds/Rebness
Summary: Claudia's latest work of art heals the fractured little family living at the Rue Royale. Music helps where words fail.
Relationships: Lestat de Lioncourt/Louis de Pointe du Lac
Comments: 9
Kudos: 52





	Songs of Innocence and Experience

**Author's Note:**

> This work was inspired by **[a tumblr post and the 2 additions in fanart to it here,](https://i-want-my-iwtv.tumblr.com/post/626710171441381376/louis-why-are-there-little-hand-prints-on-the/)** and as such, this is a gift to OP **xlilvamp,** and the artists **vanitasmorgue** and **good-evening-kiss!**

Louis opened his arms, letting his victim slump against the wall in the alley, the fabric of the woman’s jacket a sordid slide as it brushed against his own. His eyes were still closed as he licked his lips, straightening up, the last taste and the rush of pure satisfaction rippling through him. It almost overshadowed the shame that lapped at the edges as he stepped back from the body of the latest fleeting lover he had delivered to Charon. 

Almost.

If there had been more time, he would have found a place to bury her, but it was high summer and already the calls of the first birds intruded the peace of the moment, the reveille rendered threatening by vampirism. He turned and made for home, his heels echoing a rapid staccato on the damp cobblestones through the quarter. 

As he drew near to the flat, he could hear the tinkling of the piano, and from the hesitancy of the playing, he knew it was Claudia rather than Lestat, striving to pluck out a melody on the piano. As he placed the key in the lock and entered, the rap to the senses that was the smell of fresh paint assailed him. 

“Claudia?” he said softly, closing the door behind him. She may not have heard, or she heard and chose not to respond, but either way, the notes continued, and his attention was on the ‘decoration’ in the hallway to the right of the stairwell: a line of red handprints in a smoothly waving line at intervals... about three feet from the ground. He felt the rush of gravity in his stomach for an instant; the crimes of the unholy family writ large like the Writing on the Wall. But it was paint, only paint. He followed the swooping line which meandered back to the dining room, and beyond that, the seldom-used kitchen. It had the sombre feel of an art _salon._ Claudia hummed along to her music, filled with the joy of unsupervised children.

If it could be said that one could follow their feet, this was how Louis made his way to the parlor, gathering his thoughts. He paused in the door frame disapprovingly.

Behold: Lestat lay sprawled on his favorite chaise lounge, his red velvet frock coat a lustrous skin soaking in the candlelight, one long leg thrown over the arm, motioning like a conductor with a silver envelope knife, the very picture of leisure. 

Louis folded his arms and stared at the two of them. 

“Why are there little handprints on the wall?” he asked gravely. 

Lestat stilled, his baton lowered only slightly. He twisted his head enough to peer at Claudia, blinking to clear his vision through a clearly drunken haze, blond hair spilling over his shoulder. _“Why are there little handprints on the wall!”_ he asked, mimicking the stern disapproval in Louis’s voice perfectly. He pointedly ignored the tsk that earned him. 

Claudia’s tune slowed down to just a few more notes. She shrugged. “I have little hands.”

He nodded sagely, and turned to Louis. _“_ She has little hands,” he announced. 

Louis shook his head. “Le _-stah--_ ”

Lestat’s hands flew to his mouth to hold in the peals of laughter as he convulsed with it, choked, little blood tears gathered at his eyelashes. 

Claudia hopped off the piano bench and threw herself at Louis, hugging him with paint-stained - but dry - hands. “I painted all of us!” she said, “Come and see,” and used her full body weight to tug Louis by the hand into the dining room where the painted hallway line ended. As they turned the corner, she pointed excitedly at her magnum opus directly on the floral wallpaper. It was an impressive portrait in fingermarks and crude strokes, indeed, it was Claudia herself centered with Papa Noir and Papa Jaune embracing her on either side, framed by a border of ribbons and even a blooming flower, all in smeared red paint. She had used different parts of her hands to create the shapes, and had done so with great accuracy and attention to detail.

 _“Mon Dieu,_ ” said Louis softly. He leaned back against a chair. It was exhausting -- _she_ was exhausting -- and yet, her enthusiasm was infectious, her tiny fingers biting into his hand. 

Lestat had followed and he arrived behind them, clapping. “Bravo, Claudia!” He grasped one of the dining room chairs for balance and then dropped gratefully into it, as if thanking it for staying still to catch him. 

Louis scooped Claudia into his arms. “But why did you do it with your bare hands, like a savage? Why not use a paintbrush?” 

“Because I _have_ bare hands…” she said, raising one hand, her fingernails shining out from the red stain. 

Lestat laughed freely again, and shook his wild blond hair in leonine approval. Presently, he collected himself, leaning forward on the dining room table. “We should throw a party for this! A gallery show, for the great artist, Claudia du Coquilles!” 

“That’s not my name, silly," said Claudia, tipping her head in against Louis’ chest and sighing contentedly.

Louis looked at Lestat and he looked right back at him, and then at Claudia. Lestat’s thousand _noms de plume_ was not a topic which had been addressed in their years together.

“Don’t you mean Claudia _de Pointe du Lac?”_ she asked in a theatrically small voice, lips in a teasing little smile.

By this time, she knew their surnames well; she had learned to read in the past few months and would often rifle through their mail or bills, admiring Louis’ penmanship; he had worked with her on her cursive and after studying his stacked checks, she could sign his name with stunning accuracy. Louis faithfully used one surname, his honest name etched into his grave in the same sloping script with which he wrote his name on checks, but capricious, dangerous Lestat had many; and he sometimes employed whole different attitudes when they hunted, introducing himself as one character or another, so that she often asked him to play one over and over again.

‘Du Coquilles’ was not a favorite of hers, and she was given to scrunching up her nose with displeasure whenever this puppet was paraded out for the mortals. 

Lestat watched her with more than a little open curiosity, sharp chin on his palm, fingers curling at his lip. He was clearly still too bemused by the whole idea of an art show to be deflated by this very small rejection, and by the heartfelt portrait. He stretched, cat-like, admired it again… the three figures, bound together in their embrace, and was pleased. It was a miraculous occurrence, a biblical burning bush; proof that the long path of endless nights that had taken him to this night had been worth all the terrible slings and arrows. To have fought and bled to get to this pleasant domesticity, bask in the warmth, the light, of this beautiful demon daughter and the man who held her in his arms. It had all been created from nothing, with a spark - of sorts - drawn from Lestat’s own wrist. He could have cried.

He shook his hair out and resurfaced, wiping at his eyes with a cloth napkin. “We’ll work out the name later. It’s not important. You have the talent, _ma poupée_ ,” He rose to his feet, shoving at the table for stability, then stretched out his arms to take Claudia.

“I don’t think so,” said Louis, holding her closer. 

_“Bien sûr,_ you’re so strong, you carry our princess up to bed, Papa Noir. How did it get to be so late! My goodness!” his hands fluttered as he ushered them up the stairs, and so on and so forth, chattering away as Louis carried a yawning Claudia, changed her into bedclothes, and laid her into her coffin.

Louis was keenly aware of Lestat’s eyes on him. He turned back to the door, where Lestat watched him keenly. “Yes?” 

Lestat shrugged. “Good morning.” He dipped his head slightly, then left, closing the door gently behind him.

Louis shrugged. He pulled at his clothes and began to loosen them to change into something more accommodating the deathsleep. 

He heard Lestat moving about in the other room, the creak of the floorboards as he walked deliberately, leaning his weight, grounding himself. Then there was a pause. 

Louis caught his breath; listened keenly. Of course, if Lestat _dared_ try anything tonight-- 

He frowned when the movement began again, and the audible slide of Lestat’s coffin lid signalled there would be no visit. 

***

The following evening, Lestat and Claudia were on their way to find a pair of victims. Lestat broke into dance here and there along the streets in a dreamy state, twirling her, freshly in love with life all over again. The Rue Royale family had suffered a prolonged spate of Angry Silences between Louis and Lestat of late, and the release of tension from Claudia’s escapade the previous night had overcome it; all three treasured the peace. 

She had been fully compliant as Louis took a damp cloth to her paint-spattered hands and arms the following evening, restoring her porcelain perfection, even under tiny fingernails, and she fell asleep nearly before he had arranged her carefully into his coffin, utterly spent. And Lestat begrudgingly agreed that as lovely as her art was, the handprints couldn’t stay on the walls, so with a sinking heart, he scrubbed it off, tearing away the expensive wallpaper where necessary. Best not to frighten the help the next day, who would no doubt fail to find it as heartwarming as her fathers did.

The firm set of Louis’s mouth the previous evening had been so enticing that Lestat burned with possessive fury. He _wanted_. It had been too long since the last time Louis had gone dancing with him and been encircled in his arms; that’s what was needed. Lestat thirsted for it more than blood. 

And so he flicked his fangs impatiently as Claudia fed on the young woman he had chosen for her. As lively as Lestat had been on their way here, and as much as he always enjoyed watching Claudia ask for the treacherous embrace that meant death to her victim -- he hadn’t performed much flair on this hunt, and Claudia could tell that he was merely going through the motions, rushed. 

He glanced at his pocketwatch, and she saw him do so. “Claudia, aren’t you finished with her yet?”

She gulped audibly, making eye contact, but unable to answer in her swoon. Rushing a feeding vampire was truly poor etiquette, but needs must. Louis might have returned by now, and Lestat had to drag him to a dance hall before the band grew too tired. 

“Mmm _hmmf,”_ she said, and then pushed her palms down on the woman, breaking the seal of her lips on the pale throat and exhaling, kitten fangs out. 

This expression always charmed him, and he grinned at her: “Ducky!” and made for the door. He’d usually offer to carry her so that she could swim in the heated bliss that followed, but tonight, it didn’t even cross his mind; he didn’t even mark that she stomped behind him a little moodily. 

As predicted, he caught Louis just as he slipped out the door of the flat. “So glad I caught you, Monsieur _Rapide sur ses Pieds!”_ he scoffed.

“Did you want me to take Claudia now? We had planned that you’d be back in--” he had his silver pocket watch open, gave it a glance, and snapped it shut. “At least another hour.” He regarded Lestat warily. “...What have you done?” 

“What? Nothing!” Lestat passed his cane from one gloved hand to the other, gave it a twirl.

“Then why are you looking at me--” 

“I killed a lady!” Claudia gushed, hopping up and reaching for Louis to pick her up. He didn’t. 

“Shhh!” Lestat put a hand on top of her head softly but firmly, glancing around to make sure no one had heard. “ _Only in the house,_ remember? We only talk about that in the _house!”_

“I know, _I know,_ ” she said in a sing-song manner, her face coloring vibrantly. She skipped up the few steps and into the flat, beckoning them both to follow. 

Louis looked back at Lestat slowly, judgment fully stamped across his face. He wore one of Lestat’s favourite expressions: his delightful mouth with lips pressed and tucked just a little inwardly, as if holding back an onslaught of undignified commentary while the right phrasing could be delivered. The twist of his lip had Lestat caught. 

He shook himself. “Listen, nothing’s wrong, we’re fine, everything’s fine, no one heard her, no one’s coming around the corner for us,” he rushed to reassure, a mischievous gleam in his eye, and dusted at Louis’ lapel where there was no dust. “Wipe that silly expression off your pretty face.” He leaned in, and before Louis could extricate himself, Lestat held his shoulders fast, and planted a little kiss right on the Cupid’s bow and plumpest part of his lower lip. Pulling back, eyes at half-mast, all seduction, “Besides, it’s foolish to think anyone would believe her; she’s a child, little five year olds don’t go around killing anyone!” 

Louis batted his hands away, which Lestat allowed with an indulgent air. Gracious of him to let Louis do that, did Louis have any idea how gracious that was? When he could more easily just hold him still and continue to make his arguments? 

“I’m going out,” Louis stepped around him and added, “on my own. I’ll be back in about an hour, _as previously scheduled.”_ He tipped his head and spirited away into the night. 

Lestat knew what “on my own” meant, and it boiled his freshly added blood. Yes, he’d agreed to this schedule, but weren’t schedules meant to be flexible? Where was Louis’ sense of adventure? Schedules became routines, routines became patterns, patterns became death; the same night, night after night, it could very easily lead to death by boredom! Couldn’t he comprehend that? 

Claudia was waiting on one of the silk damask couches in the parlor, with a few books in her lap, peering up at him, her hands so small on the stack. Lestat sighed, desperately wanting to chase after Louis, not sit here and grow molded to the couch. 

“Read to me, Papa Jaune! _”_ she said, opening one of the books, not his favorite: _Grimm’s Fairy Tales_ , which could easily consume the rest of the evening.“Yes, of course,” he said, crestfallen as he sat beside her and took half of the book into his lap, like a slab of lead. This wasn’t right. He couldn’t just let this lie, Louis out there in the dark, wasting valuable dance hall time on some _kill_. Couldn’t he show some restraint, the musicians were most likely at their peak right now! Their performance was depreciating in value every minute that ticked by on that damned silver pocket watch tucked into Louis’ vest. Lestat eased into the cushions, and stared blindly at the book’s illustrations; his eyes focused on the delicate engraving on the lid of Louis’ watch: “ _rien_.”

As with most of the artifacts of their strange life together, it had come about as a result of an argument: Louis had retreated into one of his frequent bouts of melancholia, and with the change of the seasons and the sky growing lighter more quickly, he had returned home too close to dawn a few times too many for Lestat’s liking. Dreamy remoteness was not conducive to survival. 

Lestat had accosted him one evening as he drifted, and irritably asked him, “What’s the matter now!”

Louis had glowered at him and answered, “nothing.” 

“Oh?” said Lestat, cocking his head. “Just what is that supposed to mean?” 

“It means,” Louis had explained patiently, “that there is nothing for you to concern yourself about.” 

“You’ve been moping around all evening. Out with it!” said Lestat, and he came perilously close to shaking him by the shoulders. 

Louis pushed him away diffidently. “Sometimes nothing really does mean _nothing_.”

“Poppycock! You know, when the Bastille was stormed and the Parisians were parading the heads of the guards on pikes around town, Louis XVI sat down and wrote about how the day had gone. And do you know what he wrote?” He folded his arms.

“What?”

Lestat gave him an unpleasant smirk. “ _Nothing._ ”

He shrugged. “Perhaps he meant his hunt for the day. Perhaps that’s what _I_ meant.”

“Or maybe he didn’t want to think about the truth of the situation.”

His lips drew into a soft frown, brows tense, studying Lestat’s face as if to challenge the veracity of what he’d said. He looked at a framed picture on the wall, and then his gaze came to rest on the carpet between them. Lestat watched him, there was something painfully endearing about the way the fringe of his eyelashes veiled the green of his eyes. He swallowed. “Or maybe he didn’t understand it.” 

“You’re a fool, Louis,” said Lestat, but there was no heat to it.

The conversation had ended there. And the next night, Lestat had presented him with the gleaming watch. Carefully engraved into the back was the single word: _rien._

Louis had frowned down at the gift, and then looked at Lestat. “I don’t--” 

“Sometimes it really does mean nothing,” said Lestat, gently folding Louis’ hands closed around the watch, and neither of them ever mentioned it again. 

And he had carried it, quite faithfully, whenever he went out. But the envy one feels for a pocket watch, nestled against the body of his sometime lover, was too much to bear. Lestat rose to his feet, and slipped a jacket back on.

“Papa, where are you going?”

“You know how to read now, read to yourself.” And he was out the door. 

***

He’d only been inside for a half hour, but the warm air on his skin felt like a balm as Lestat raced out into his second hunt for the night, giddy for his quarry.

Part of what made hunting for Louis a real challenge is that he left no trail, Lestat could only go by his instinct of what kind of mood he might be in, further defined by the time of night, and the always languid aim of his fledgling in this, the most crucial of their nightly activities. It was as if Louis performed this as drudgery meant to be suffered through as quickly as possible; the only thing that truly mattered to him in the act was the getting away with it. Well, so it seemed, but whenever Lestat could peer at him from a distance as he fed on his victim, it was obvious that the effect of fresh blood pouring into his slender form was as pleasurable for him as any other sensible vampire.

He couldn’t fly across the rooftops at this hour with so many people out on the street, so Lestat made his way briskly up and down the French quarter, combing through the tangle of Louis’ favorite alleys and ramshackle areas. Knowing he only had an hour, Louis wouldn’t have risked going very far, so the Garden District was right out. Marigny was a possibility, but with all the lively bars and restaurants, Louis couldn’t have gone to any of these, too likely a chance of being noticed as he took his repast. This was why Lestat charmed his victims into being invited into their homes for dinner. No passersby to bother him during a dining experience, it worked out rather well.

No, Louis would have gone up Esplanade Avenue, aiming for the Bayou St. John, possibly to find a boatman, where the crowd thinned, no more bars spilling light out onto the street. Lestat slowed his pace, listening intently. 

A pair of black cats hissed at him from the shrubs across the street, their yellow eyes disembodied in the darkness. He’d heard the word for “vampire” in every tongue, and that included feline; they didn’t have a _language,_ but there was a distinctive baffled fury to their hisses when they saw Lestat or his little family. He hissed right back at them and their backs arched, tails full, before they flew back into the depths of their derelict yard. 

It hurt no less now than it did as a young fledgling, to find that most animals innately despised him for what he was. He chewed at his lip absently, pressed a fang down. He greatly preferred dogs, but a fond memory flickered to mind of being a small child, and visiting the local village, where he had wandered into a dilapidated shed and beheld a fresh heap of days-old kittens cuddled against their serene-faced mother. It wasn’t long after that he was catching and skinning cats and hares to eat as the crops failed, but the mother cat would understand: the family must come first. 

A few steps further and he heard the very same cats hiss again, and he turned on his heel, tracing through the overgrown property and drawing near to the building. 

He decided to forgive the cats their condition. After all, they had found his truant son. 

Louis knelt in what was once an orderly garden, now overgrown, violet night blooms had escaped from rock-lined delineations, it was as if they had uprooted just to be closer to him. A statue, lavished in the spill of moonlight.

Lestat braced his body against the mildewed wood of the building and achieved the stillness of it, challenging as that was for him. His breath caught in his throat watching Louis, with preternatural hearing, he nearly swooned over the tiny suckling sounds, the swallows, the way Louis held the victim so tenderly, as if she was a dearly-missed relative.

Time seemed to slow, with only the rustle of the waxy leaves in the overgrown yard, moonlight scattered through lazy wisps of clouds. Louis finally released the woman he had chosen, carefully laying her down in a fresh ditch, and Lestat waited, yearning, as he shoveled earth on top, waited for him to stand over it for a moment, as if he had merely entered the garden to admire the flowers. In partial silhouette, he looked like an illustration, crisp black frock coat, the white of his cravat casting a moonlit glow back at the underside of his sharp jawline. Wild, loose wavy hair like the overgrown garden. 

One thing Lestat could never quite predict when he followed Louis: how long he might linger, or from which direction he would take his leave, and this was one of those awkward times where Louis gave no warning before turning and aiming right for Lestat’s hiding place, at a fast pace. There was no escape; Lestat could only make a stage side step out of a collision.

“What are you doing here!” Louis said in a harsh whisper. 

“Out for a walk, lovely night, isn’t it?” he said breezily. Louis bristled and his jaw clenched, visibly reining himself in, taking a step back from Lestat. “So deserted here, so quiet…” 

“I see,” said Louis, with a sigh and a dismissive wave of his hand as if he did not expect a straight answer. He was glowing, vibrant from the kill, and his voice slightly deeper and melodic as if he were mellow from a good wine. He straightened up, and regarded Lestat wryly. “I’m sure that’s why you’re on _this_ street, specifically. Where _I_ went.” 

Lestat glanced around, gesturing to the ruins of buildings. “Dereliction has its beauty. I love the old architecture here, the original gable decorations, the old corbels... Trust your aesthetic taste to find some of the best lilies and gardenias in New Orleans, we should uproot a few for our courtyard…”

Louis waved all that off, too. “Is Claudia with you?” he asked, with a touch of desperation in his voice.

“No, we’re entirely on our own,” said Lestat with a gleam in his eye. “She’s home, quite occupied, tucked into chapter three of a thousand, I assume,” he said, taking Louis’ arm in his own and guiding them back through the brambles to the street.

“You know I don’t like leaving her alone--” 

“Oh pshh,” he said with a frown. “She’s occupied, as I said, you know how she gets lost in her books, come, let _Monsieur du Coquilles_ take you out tonight,” he said conspiratorially, “now that we have that nasty business of dinner all out of the way…” 

Louis peered at him curiously, but didn’t pull away. 

“Claudia doesn’t like Monsieur du Coquilles,” said Louis. “She has decided that he’s a few cards short of a full deck, moreover, that all four of the Princes are replaced with Jokers.” He arched a brow.

Lestat laughed. “Did she really say all that! I thought she liked that character.” He made an expression one might make after tasting a strong whiskey that burned on the way down, but nevertheless was enjoyable. They kept walking, their footsteps echoing in the empty hallowed night.

The comfortable quietness grew, as Lestat had taken them away from the city, to the Bayou St. John, precious time alone together. They knew not to ruin it with words. They watched the moonlight paint silver streaks on the water, geometric wakes knifed the surface by the few passing boats. Lestat opened his mouth at one point to say something, looked at Louis, who regarded the waters, shut it again.

It was Louis who broke the silence. Without facing Lestat, he murmured: “Is your surname in fact ‘du Coquilles’?”

Lestat made a soft scoffing sound, checked his shoes before gazing back out at the water. “You know I’ve gone by other names in our time together.”

“Yes, but you seem to have an affinity for ‘du Coquilles,’ I’ve always assumed it was your true name.” 

“You shouldn’t have assumed. It’s not,” Lestat said. There was an edge to his voice; the warning of a snap.

“What is it, then?” Louis pressed, still watching the boats.

“Well, it’s _not that!”_ And this was a true snap. 

Lestat went on, glancing at Louis, then back out at the water. “Listen. I’ve kept things simple for you, it’s worked for us, we have an understanding -” he ventured a hand on Louis’ shoulder, and when he didn’t feel any resistance, gave it a tentative squeeze. He allowed himself a surreptitious fondle of a thick black curl. Such gorgeous hair; there for his pleasure.

Louis turned to face him but made no move to dislodge his hand, eyes viridian in the moonlight, searching, so gravely serious. “But don’t you see? Claudia doesn't understand, why I have a constant surname and yours changes at your whim.” He looked away, shifted his tone a level softer. “You are setting a bad example.” 

“I disagree, it’s a matter of safety, don’t you see? There’s no need for you to know. _Neither_ of you.” Louis was looking at him again with those gentle green eyes so wide, so curious, so hungry for any scrap of information. He knew the feeling, all too well. But Louis was not him, and not allowed. 

He went on: “Besides. Why have only _one_ surname? We live through generations,” he said with a flourish of his hand, and here, inspiration struck. “Why not change them like you do your jackets? I get tired of old names…”

“- And I’d have been content to wear _the same jacket for decades,_ it’s your insufferable need for flair, you who’s needlessly stuffed our closets to bursting!” Louis said with some heat. 

God, he was infuriating. Every metaphor was twisted beyond recognition from Lestat’s intentions. Lestat nearly shouted back: “And I'll get tired of _you, too,_ if you don't stop with the _infernal questions!”_ His hands had long since returned to his sides, and even though Louis was mere inches away, it might as well have been a mile. Louis shivered and Lestat’s heart lurched. 

“Louis…” he started, and Louis blinked, ducked his head, clearly steeling himself for an onslaught. Lestat changed course. “Look, you’re right, there is something to be said for treasuring something, caring for it, even a name.” He reached out tentatively to trace the fine skin on the back of Louis’ hand. It shook almost imperceptibly. “Monsieur Pointe du Lac. Louis. It's irrelevant. You know my true first name. Please understand; for now, I cannot give you more.”

Louis eyed him suspiciously. "For now," he repeated.

Lestat went on, clasping Louis’ hands in his, and “Come dance with me, I came out here to find you, I can’t even remember the last time--”

“It was three months ago,” Louis murmured. “And you’d gotten completely drunk, flirting with everyone, you bullied your way into the kitchen, not even the scullery maids were spared your advances... I nearly carried you home…” Despite himself, a warm smile spread across his narrow face. 

“Was I?” he asked delightedly.

And he did remember: Louis helping him up the stairs, Louis tenderly laying him out in their bed, tucking in beside him… he sighed with pleasure. Domestic and kind and good. _Home._

Louis cocked his head to the side. “If you were going to come up with a surname, ‘du Coquilles’ is very nearly ‘du Coq’ which is closer to the truth of you, so well done.”

He barked out a laugh. “Is that a compliment! Never mind, I’ll take what I can get. Please. I beg you. I'll get down on my knees if I must! Come dance with me.”

Louis glanced at the offered hand, and then at Lestat’s sincere open face. With a put-upon sigh, he took the hand.

***

Claudia glowered at the door long after Lestat had departed. It wasn’t often that he treated her so diffidently, but it stung whenever he did. She had learned that tantrums didn’t work with a man who could throw bigger strops than she did, but she made a mental note to punish him with the same tone and dismissal at a later date. 

It was rare that she had time alone in the flat, and she had taken advantage of these times before to rifle through Lestat’s personal effects, so there was no mystery left to enjoy tonight; merely mild boredom. 

She wandered into the music room and looked around it, biting her lip as she considered. Then, decisively, she clambered up onto the stool at the fortepiano. The instrument was the most expensive and exclusive piece of furniture in the flat, and Lestat loved it jealously. 

She tentatively pressed a key. And then another, and then she reseated herself and began to play.

She couldn't play as Lestat did; he infused his playing with character she couldn't replicate. And she couldn't play like Louis, for though he played the piano rarely, he had no problem reaching the keys which ranged across the board with his elegant long white fingers.

There was an open book on the piano, sheet music for _The Marriage of Figaro._ She had asked Lestat to play it for her many times, but he refused if Louis was around.

Well, he couldn't stop her now. 

She carefully picked out the notes - Papa Jaune had taught her to read music some time ago - and gradually sped up as best she could reaching across the keys.

She muttered the Italian words under her breath to keep her timing:

_"Addio, picciolo Cherubino…"_

A man, dancing. Something in the room smelled spoiled; sickly. She was crying so hard that her body rocked with it, and wrenched garbled words up out of her chest, and no one heard, no one came… until a shadow fell across the doorway.

___Non piu andrai_

_Farfallone amoroso_

A tall man, iridescent in the darkness. He opened his arms like the statue of Jesus she had seen in the church.

Tired. She tried to stand up. The dark man enfolded her in his arms.

She stopped playing, and frowned at the piano. Where had she seen this play? Certainly it couldn't be a memory. Each memory she had of her life was clear as a bell: a world, a room, a conversation brought to life as if she were reading a book.

These images were cloudy, confused. 

She set her mouth and began to play the easier, gentler music she learned in her piano classes.

She drifted with the music, and as it grew and swelled and escaped, so did she. She closed her eyes, and she was seated at the little theatre on Bourbon, her long white fingers, like Louis’s but slimmer, ladylike, danced over the keys. She shook loose her long blonde hair, the motion setting the gems across the swell of her decolletage afire, and the audience were rapt; spellbound by her beauty. She appreciated beauty. Who wouldn’t? 

There came the familiar hollow ring of footsteps on the iron stairs, and she paused, listening. Her fathers were together and one -- perhaps both -- were tipsy. Resentment crested in her and shattered the loose peace she had enjoyed moments before; why hadn’t they invited her? 

Lestat’s booming voice sounded outside like the very bells he called on: _“Sonnez les matines! Sonnez les matines!”_

“Lestat, stop, this is our door!” scolded Louis, but there was a fondness to his voice. “J'en ai eu assez de toi!”

Claudia’s eyes flicked to the door, her mouth set in a firm line. She looked away as the door burst open in a rush of chaos and light. 

“Oh, you’ve had your fill of me, have you? You so- sure, so _certain_ of that, Pointe du Lac?” Lestat’s grin was wide as he slurred his words.

“Stop, stop--” said Louis, attempting to extricate himself from Lestat’s grip and making a poor job of it, and then they fell in a tangle at the bottom of the stairs. 

Claudia stood over them and schooled her expression into sweetness. “Papa Jaune! I didn’t know when you’d come back.” 

He ignored her, still laughing, as he climbed up a few steps and sat down, his hand fixed on a spindle. Louis pulled himself up by the bannister, his gaze still on Lestat. 

“Will someone play Haydn for me?” Claudia asked uncertainly, her voice small; was she to be ignored for the entire evening? 

Louis tore his gaze from Lestat and turned to her, his eyes wondering, waking from a dream. “Yes, of course! Where is that book…”

“No.” She said, and finally, Lestat’s laughter had died down enough to hear her. “No, I want Papa Jaune to play. Please?” She clasped her hands together.

He eyed her, a smile still on his lips. What _had_ they been up to? His collar was torn, blood spilled on it, and he never spilled blood. Something fiery stroked up her spine, leaving bitter embers. Louis’s cravat had come loose, and he searched his jacket pockets, pulling out a single glove remorsefully.

“Bien sûr, _ma poupée,”_ Lestat said, hitting the second syllable of the word hard, flailing for a moment to haul himself up, eyes locked on Claudia as he rose above her. Louis reached out to help him achieve his full height, but she knew all too well that this flailing wasn’t real; it was yet another demand of Louis, a show of loyalty. 

Lestat took his seat at the piano with some theatrical flair, as if on stage in a large concert hall, tied back his hair afresh, and charged into the music, from memory.

Claudia herded Louis onto her favorite damask bench, and climbed into his lap. He was sweetly docile as she arranged his limbs just so, like a giant doll, and there was a softness in him from the alcohol she could smell on his breath. She leaned against him, one arm wrapped across his vest, comforted by the familiar sounds of his pocketwatch and the steady furnace of his gentle heart. 

The music was liquid, it flowed through the white and golden parlor like a heady fragrance. Lestat played with a virtuosity that only an adult could command, rocking with the music. 

She nuzzled closer into Louis’s chest, and looked over at Lestat. He watched them both as his fingers flew across the piano keys, mastering it without really trying. 

She gave him a maliciously sweet smile: _I won in the end, Papa._

But his own answering smile was genuine, his gaze serene. He regarded them both with such a tangibly fond air that she decided to forgive him for his earlier transgression. She was warm and safe in this room with her family, in Louis’s embrace; comforted by the lull and murmur of the people outside, and the quiet steady ticking of his pocket watch. 

The end


End file.
